


Rest/Stop

by Teigh



Series: Road Work [2]
Category: Bandom, My Chemical Romance
Genre: Gen, Poetry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-12
Updated: 2013-01-12
Packaged: 2017-11-25 06:07:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/635912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Teigh/pseuds/Teigh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bob at rest.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rest/Stop

**Author's Note:**

> Written for themoononastick's prompt, 'silvery'. Thank you, my dear!
> 
> Part two of the _Road Work_ series.

Rolling loose change in his pocket,  
fingers find the gap  
along the pocket seam.  
Threads  
brush the knuckle  
of his thumb. 

Touch alone tells him  
there are too many  
dimes in his pocket;  
quarters quickly spent,  
nickels made obvious by smooth edges.

Bob thinks about  
digging out that sewing kit -  
with its odd colored thread  
and red plastic thimble  
that won't fit on any of his fingers.  
This is his favorite pair of jeans.

He's out of black,  
thinks maybe there's just pink  
and yellow left, but it's  
the inside of a pocket -  
who ever sees that shit?

What Bob does have is  
the time for mending. 

Assuming that he will be left  
alone to do it, which is unlikely. 

He imagines hiding in his bunk,  
huddled close to a needle  
trying to cut thread  
with the shitty little scissors  
and smiles. 

A truck horn sounds on the interstate  
startling a step forward  
gravel pressed between asphalt  
and shoe sole rolls.

_Brushes drawing wire whispers from a snare._

He's glad for the dark,  
tugs his hood up.

There's laughter behind him;  
Bob looks back,  
sees Frank tumble down the stairs. 

Gerard catches him. 

Brief arc of truck lights illuminates  
dark heads close together,  
Gerard's steadying hand on Frank's arm. 

The light washes out all color -  
they are monochrome,  
black shadows,  
highlighted with silver.

They look like winter,  
figures seen through frosted glass.

Bob jingles the coins in his pocket,  
 _not quite tambourine chime_  
curls his fingers  
and continues on,  
towards the truck stop.


End file.
